Make Over or Out
by phel-from-grace
Summary: Modern!AU, in which Korra can't decide what she fears more: the fashion world or her newfound nemesis, Amon, the makeup artist extraordinaire. Amorra intentions. Featuring guest appearances: Sassy Gay Mako, Hairbender Asami, Top Model Tarrlok, Lauper Lieutenant, and maybe others if I can work them in.
1. Rose Tint my World

**[MAKEOVER OR OUT]** Part 1— Rose Tint My World

**A/N:** This fic has been left hanging for two months, so now that I'm finally posting it here on FFN, hopefully I'll get the drive to finish it. I still haven't plotted the whole story, so if you have any suggestions, please feel free to drop me a line. Enjoy the crack!

* * *

"Asami, you always know how to accessorize your outfits. I'm lovin' the steampunk single glove. Asymmetric is totally in. Just _fabulous_~~"

"Oh Mako, stop. This is nothing, just a vintage item from my dad's wares. I think _you _know how to accessorize better than anyone in the industry. That scarf is _gorgeous_."

"Also my dad's. Vintage."

"Looks like we started a new trend."

"Actually, I think The Bloodbender started it before us. Ya know his signature three ponytails? Also a vintage look from his father."

Korra fought back the urge to barf. All of this talk about fashion made every hair on her body rise like a thousand flames ready to melt any of those plastic hands that were imminently out to get her. Twiddling her thumbs nervously, she sat quietly in the reception room, unintentionally eavesdropping on the fashionistas now ranting about some model big shot's older brother who apparently carried the divine powers to change any face. She shuddered at the very thought, hating the concept of altering one's physical appearance, which brought her full circle to her current predicament. She turned to her mentor seated calmly beside her, seeking moral support.

"Tenzin, do I really have to do this? I'm an athlete, not a model."

"Korra, I know you don't like the idea, but this is a necessary step in your career. Being an all-star Olympic medalist in not just about winning competitions. Never forget the image you project onto the world, the hope you inspire in people."

"Yeah, okay. But why do I have to dress up and get my photo taken? This is so stupid."

"Unfortunately, people aren't only satisfied with talent. They also want their role models to be beautiful, and the press will judge you if their high standards are not met. I can't say I agree, but it's the sad reality."

"That's wrong," she grumbled, clenching her fist and taking a stand.

"I understand your frustration, but you must bear with it."

"No, Tenzin, you don't get it. There's a reason why I turn to sports and not this prissy garbage." Korra was raising her voice, surely attracting attention by now, but she ignored the gossipy glares. "I'm beautiful the way I am, that's what I want to tell the world, and there's no way I'm letting anyone touch my face to change it!"

Timing could not be any more perfect (or imperfect) for the ambiguously gendered individual that waltzed through the doors and casually approached the glowering girl, essentially walking right into open fire. "Miss Korra, we are ready for you. This way, if you please."

"Nope, not pleased at all," she responded cheekily, crossing her arms and looking down at the poor messenger. "I've changed my mind. I'm not going through with this."

Tenzin stood up in alarm, and as if he could predict her shifty movement of wanting to bolt for the door (while burning everything in her path), he took her wrist, gently but firmly. "You'll be in good hands, there's nothing to fear. They've arranged the best."

"I don't care!" she cried out, yanking out of his grasp and causing the messenger to squeak. "Reputed or not, I'm not letting _anyone _near my face!"

"Korra—"

"Look, I've never backed away from anything in my _life_, but meeting the public's so-called standards of beauty? That's ridiculous. This isn't backing down; this is _fighting _their twisted expectations. I will not go through with this useless photoshoot and they're just gonna have to deal with it." The entire room was holding back their breath, utterly shocked by her bold declaration. "And I'll be sure to teach these stupid fashion pricks a lesson…"

"Now, Korra, don't do anything—"

Before her mentor could finish his warning, Korra turned to the frightened assistant, tripping him/her, and, just like Tenzin had predicted, she kicked everything in her path as she made her break for the exit. He sprung after her, but a poised hand rested on his shoulder to reel him back into place.

"Mr. Sato!" he exclaimed, surprised by the presence of such a highly-esteemed man, the very president of Future Agency.

"Manager Tenzin, do not be alarmed. We have everything under control."

And on cue, four bodyguards emerged from the door, snuffing Korra's destructive fire with their blockade. She tried to fight— certainly managed to knock a few balls out of the way— but they overpowered her with their increasing numbers, as more guards came to reinforce their defense. She was quickly dragged away into the hallway, thrashing and screaming obscenities that should never leave a lady's mouth, and her manager sighed at all the extra work these rumours were bound to cause.

The remaining audience simply stood wide-eyed in disbelief, awkwardly listening to the fading cries and the occasional muffled blow of a fallen body, until it finally all disappeared. A flamboyant lilt broke the silence of the room. "Ugg boots and sweatpants? Oh honey, _no_. Come back and let Mommy Mako help you~~!"

* * *

She was shoved in a dark room, the heavy metal door locking ominously behind her. White fluorescent lights were immediately flicked on, causing momentary blindness that nulled her instinct to avoid the forceful grasp of hands dragging her across the cold tile floor. As her eyes slowly adjusted to the bright environment, she caught a glimpse of her assailants— nameless figures wearing drab murky green uniforms— but her fear officially peaked at the sight before her: the makeup chair. She thrashed violently, cursing and kicking, until a damp cloth was pressed against her mouth and nose. It numbed her muscles, rendering her into an obedient lifeless doll, and she seethed at the injustice of their underhanded methods.

The sedative substance however did not affect her awareness, so when they forced her into the high-back swiveling chair, the fear felt more real than ever before. From the corner of her eye, she saw a man with the most ridiculously trimmed mustache, and under normal circumstances, she would have laughed or mocked his atrocious attire, particularly the skin-tight gray turtleneck with gold shoulder pads, or better yet, the green-tinted sunglasses obnoxiously perched on the bridge of his snobbish nose. But she was terrified. His gloved hands twirled twin curling irons, and her heart sped up. She would not let that shit anywhere _near _her hair.

Korra was still determined to escape, despite the horrible odds against her. She fidgeted with all the energy that she could muster, and when the assistants slackened their grip, she thought that she had succeeded. Her victory however vanished as soon as it had come because in walked a man with an aura so strong that it stopped her heart. This was it. She somehow just knew. He was the legendary older brother of the top model that the fashionistas gossiped about. She remembered the name that they had repeated in reverence: Amon. He was the big bad final boss and she was utterly petrified, no longer resisting the hands that kept her in place.

Elegantly removing his double-breasted charcoal jacket on a nearby coat rack, Korra couldn't help but notice that his fashion sense was rather modest compared to everything that she had witnessed in this hellhole. He simply wore a black collared shirt and tailored pants, classy and clean, but not over the top. He moved with utmost charisma, and despite feeling intimidated, there was something seductive about the way he carried himself.

Those icy blue eyes quickly snapped her out of her trance, as she felt his gaze pierce directly into her soul. She couldn't hide anything from this man, so she weakly stared back and ignored the wafts of his distracting cologne that felt intoxicating now that he stood so close to her trembling body. His expression was unreadable like a mask, and when he reached out his hand towards her face, she could no longer take it. She looked away, unable to contain the thought of how he would strip away her identity with the infamous powers he possessed.

Grabbing her chin, he forced her back into eye contact. "I have received notice of your insolence, young _Avatar_."

She winced at the title, knowing full well that he was mocking her status as the 'incarnation of athletic divinity' that the media claimed her to be.

"Our session, while inevitable, is premature. Although it would be the simplest thing for me to get this over with, I can't. Your skin is in terrible condition. Cosmetics of every grade and quality would reject your unrefined surface. I assure you, it can be fixed— then, you will experience my divine aesthetic skills. And I _will_ change you." He released his grip and barked at his team, "Get her to beauty base zero!"


	2. Karma Chameleon

**[MAKE OVER OR OUT]** Part 2—Karma Chameleon

**A/N:** Do call me out if this is just stupid. I'll lessen my dose of cactus juice.

* * *

_Korra managed to escape the evil headquarters of the Superficialist faction and fled to the haven of her guardian Tenzin's suburban abode on the outskirts of Republic City. She had always been a little turned off by the long commute, and the seclusion from civilization often made her feel like she was living in some temple on an island floating in the air, but for once, she embraced the distance as it brought a sense of comfort. It kept her safe, at least for the time being. _

_She caught a glimpse of the full moon hanging proudly in the night's sky before collapsing lifelessly on her bed, utterly exhausted from the terror of her previous encounter. She didn't want to think about all the terrible things that they would do to her in that chair, and she was too tired to dwell on it any further. Her eyes drooped, slumber almost immediately overtaking her body, especially with the lull of the gentle breeze brushing against her curtains— maybe she should shut the window, but her heavy limbs made no effort to budge. Defeated, she snuggled into her covers, and gladly drifted away from the nightmare of reality._

_But her rest ended as quickly as it had arrived. _

_A loud crash jolted her awake when a masked figure came flying in through the open window. More shadows emerged, breaking down the door and rushing towards her with outstretched arms out for revenge. Korra refused to be held captive: despite the panic, her adrenaline kicked in and she fought on the offensive, swinging fiery punches to whoever got close. Her fists landed some hits, but her enemies were just as skillful, swerving gracefully to evade her attacks. She was clearly outnumbered. Unable to watch her back, a gloved hand sneaked from behind and pressed a damp cloth onto her mouth— no, not this again, she thought. The drug instantly weakened her knees, causing her to shamefully fall to the ground; the Superficialist did not even bother holding her wrists in place because she looked so helpless. _

_Gasping to catch her breath, Korra nearly choked from the fear when she heard the familiar steady footfalls of impending doom. Her heart sped up, while her mind repeated the word 'no' at every frantic beat, and every step that drew closer. Looking up, she watched the torso of Amon materialize from the dark, the moonlight illuminating his handsome face that held a stony, unreadable expression. _

_"After I take your natural beauty away, you will be nothing." He reached out his hand and she…_

Screamed. Korra sprung forth out of her covers, this time awakening for real. The sweat trailed down her distraught face, eyes wide and mouth agape, her lungs desperate for air. She slowly returned to her senses, with the help of her dog that licked her hand in comfort.

"It's…it's all right, Naga." She stroked the soft white fur of her beloved pet. "I just had a bad dream."

She held Naga close, still shivering from the aftereffect of the nightmare. It had been two weeks since her first (and only) encounter with Amon, but every day when she visited the fashion hellhole to undergo her 'treatment', she was worried that he would attack her off guard. The ridiculous second-in-command, the Lieutenant, seemed to notice her paranoia, and he assured her, albeit condescendingly, that Amon was a busy man and her session was scheduled after her skin reached decent standards.

The revelation relaxed her only for a fraction of a second because the pain that ensued left her kicking and screaming more obscenities. Her first torture consisted of a full-body wax, and when they said _full_, they were not kidding in the least. Korra was a swimmer, so her skin was generally hairless, but this apparently did not satisfy their perverse sense of perfection as they uprooted _all_ the areas, leaving her feeling prepubescent and utterly ashamed. Moreover, she had to sit through hours of _lying down_— by far worse than Tenzin's meditation training— while the strangers lathered disgusting vanilla-scented substances onto her raw skin, and made her feel like some half-baked pastry.

Thinking that the torture would never cease, Korra was almost relieved to hear the Lieutenant's raspy voice call out, "She's ready." _Almost_ relieved. Because it then dawned onto her that she was ready for _Amon_, and she felt nauseous at the thought.

Korra clutched onto Naga and tried to keep her hope alive. If she kicked up enough of a fight, maybe they would finally give up and she wouldn't have to dip her toes further in this awful, superficial world…

* * *

She was wrong. Her game plan completely failed, but Korra still clung onto hope.

Tenzin had always said that she was too impulsive and needed to learn how to be patient, to wait for the right moment to strike instead of charging blindly with brute force. She should have taken his advice, but in her defense, her better judgment flew out the window when she entered the lobby and heard the gossipy chatter of 'glam' and 'fabulous'. Her legs had the first instinct to kick whoever or whatever in her path— thankfully she managed to control the impulse since the outcome would have been ugly— and the second instinct was to flee, which caused no internal qualms as she did not hesitate to dash for the exit.

Her efforts however resulted in failure: the guards easily subdued her with their underhanded methods. They even seemed bored by the predictable routine, or maybe they were just getting very skilled at handling her by now, because Korra found herself strapped in the makeup chair, left alone, before she even had the chance to throw any foul curses at their retreating forms. Realising her weakness, she slumped back against the restraints and decided to use her head for once.

* * *

Amon was making her wait.

She could not tell the time, but the effects of the drug were wearing off, which led her to believe that at least half an hour had passed since her capture. Just as her patience almost reached its limit, the heavy door swung open and clicked shut, followed by the sound of familiar footsteps echoing in the room. Korra's confidence deflated.

Her gaze had been lazily directed at the floor, but in an effort to regain some of her courage, she looked up and peered into the mirror to observe the ongoings of the world behind her. Amon was removing his coat and taking an absurdly long time fitting it onto a hanger. He seemed like a careful, meticulous type of person, and she did not quite know how to digest such information. Her stomach curdled at the thought of those dexterous fingers molding her face…

"I heard that you have been rather disobedient, young Avatar." He calmly approached the chair, staring deeply in the reflection of her eyes in the mirror. Korra matched the intensity, refusing to be the first to break eye contact. "But there is no need for these restraints."

He loosened the straps that bound her wrists to the armrests, and she held her breath, trying to ward off the scent of his faint cologne. "I am confident that you will behave," he placed a strong hand on her shoulder, gripping lightly but somewhat menacingly, "or should I take back my assumption?"

She gave him an ambiguous nod-shake of her head, since she did not trust the state of her voice. He smiled back in return. "My assistants have done a fine job."

Another gentle pat on the shoulder. There was no trace of ill-intent, but Korra felt uneasy because although he seemed pleased, she could not tell if he was being genuine. He might as well be wearing a mask.

Staring in the mirror, she watched his hand leave her shoulder and move towards her flushed cheek, but he instead stopped mid-way, resting the tip of his fingers on the traditional tribal hairclip that secured her side ponytails in place.

"This will have to go," he whispered, unclasping the ornament and Korra snapped back to her senses. There was no way she would sit back and do nothing.

Jerking her head sideways, she swatted his hand away and stared fiercely, not at the reflection, but directly in his pale blue eyes. "Don't you dare," she growled.

He hummed, appearing unfazed by her outburst. "I thought you agreed to _behave_."

"These hairclips are precious heirlooms and no one aside from my family is allowed to handle them." She stood up, raising her fists defensively. "So don't even think about removing the others."

"I apologize for the invasion of personal property, there's no need to get excited, but you cannot possibly think that we would let you wear _that _hairstyle for the photoshoot."

"What's wrong with it? It's _my _signature style and I want to let the world know that I'm proud of it."

The placid look on his face vanished in an instant. Korra had no time to respond before he grabbed her wrist and forced her back into the chair, viciously tugging off the other two ornaments and letting the thick strands of brown hair fall to her shoulders. "It's _my _hairstyle, bitch."

She sat back in shock, thoroughly confused, but eventually managed to find her voice. "You've got sideburns and hair that barely covers your neck. What the hell are you talking about?!"

He shot her a murderous glare before reaching in his back pocket to retrieve his wallet. She could easily guess where this was heading— she knew plenty of people who kept pictures in their wallets, but never of themselves. Amon was surely a narcissist.

Feeling curious, Korra leaned in closer to peek at the contents he withdrew from one of the flaps. She had to take back her comment; none of those photos featured him and most were probably of his family. A kid with a plump face and thick eyebrows starred in most of the portraits; she wondered if the little boy was his son. Her thoughts were however derailed with the new photo that hung over her nose and she took in her hands.

It was clearly Amon in his teens— she could tell by his pale blue eyes and the distinct sourpuss scowl that he apparently never grew out of. But he certainly had changed his fashion sense, and for once, Korra _understood_ what clothes could do to a person. She could not decide what was worse, the homemade ugly ass Christmas sweater or the fact that he was indeed wearing _her _hairstyle. He did not have clips holding the tails that framed his face, but they were clearly tied in the same way, and Korra was once again at a loss of words.

He snatched back the photo, stowing it safely in his wallet. "I refuse to let you popularize _my _hairstyle."

Much to her surprise, he turned his back and left the room. The Lieutenant trailed in almost immediately with his usual condescending sneer, and although Korra looked shell-shocked, her mind remained clear— this was her chance to escape. She sprung from her seat and tackled the mustached-man to the floor, bolting for the door with renewed confidence.

She ran through the hallways, pushing past the crowds of fashion scum, never looking back to see if her enemies were tailing right behind her. Dead set on getting the hell out of the building, she did not even notice the guards at the front exit holding the door open _for _her…

It was only when she was sitting on the bus, the wind blowing in her face and causing her hair to flow majestically like some cliché shampoo commercial, that she realised why it had been so easy to escape.

Somewhere back in Republic City, in a dimly-lit room for the sake of dramatic effect, Korra's hairclips were perched in the palm of Amon's hand.


End file.
